Chapter VII

(i)

TT was very still in the room where the boy, •*• crouched in a chair, listened for every sound that might bring him news; but it was a stillness of intensity and thought rather than of realistic fact, since outside, as the minutes went by, Rome awoke more and more to her new day. The conversations beneath the windows did not die out into silence, as earlier in the night; one was succeeded by another, until voices became general; now the call of a cabman, now the cry of a trader, now the talking of friends. So too with the sound of wheels; there was not a crescendo, a roar, and a long diminuendo down into stillness again; but roar succeeded roar, and the beat of hoofs the beat of hoofs.

Within the great hotel, too, life came back. Doors opened and closed; there was the noise of water dashed against steps at back and front; footsteps went over paved places; soft vibrations made themselves perceived as men and maids passed overhead and beneath along the thick-carpeted passages.

Once there was a bustle; sounds of the moving of heavy weights shook the air; voices and steps sounded about; doors banged: and the boy started up, wide-eyed and white, his whole conscious thought concentrated into the sense of hearing. But the noises passed; wheels rolled over the stones; and he, peeping between the curtains, saw an open cab drive away with travellers and luggage. And once he sprang to the door and listened, for a slow footstep had gone by and paused, it seemed, at Austin's door. He listened in an agony, the heavy beating in his throat drowning all sounds. Then he peeped out, and a maid was looking at him, curiously, he thought, from his brother's half-open door.

In a tremendous climax of anxiety there is no consecutiveness of thought, and very little orderly consideration at all. Visions, rather, come and go; little scenes present themselves. It was so with this boy. He saw a hundred vignettes, and some of them over and over again, scarcely modified even in detail. Austin wounded or dead; a group in a garden; Austin pale and victorious, with blood on his rapier-blade; Austin threatening him; Italian faces mocking and sardonic; Italian faces terrified and distraught. He saw his father too, either quiet and ordinary, or transfigured with passion and contempt; his mother swooning; his mother hard and brutal; his mother gracious and stately and unknowing. And, again and again, Gertie, in every pose and in every mood — forgiving, compassionate, furious, overwhelmed, sneering, and then compassionate once more....

There were just three or four lines of thought that presented themselves; but each broke off and tangled itself inextricably with the rest, or snapped at some external sound from the square without or the hotel within, or led up to a white wall of despair which there was no scaling.

First there was the part he himself had played. Now he was contrite and humiliated, now overwhelmed with misery, now resentful and self -acquitting, snatching in a passion of self-preservation at any excuse: he was honestly ill... it was cruel that such a strain should be put on him; Austin was at once the elder brother and the better fencer: Austin should have insisted at once on taking his place. And then misery and self -contempt all over again. Once or twice he considered the possibility of throwing himself on the floor and feigning unconsciousness, to prove his own physical collapse; but he was unable even to do this.

Next there was the consideration as to what was happening. He knew nothing except that Austin had gone to keep the appointment, whether to deprecate, to apologise, to make excuses, to make another appointment, or to fight — he had not an idea. Now he felt that Austin must surely manage to explain things away, to tide matters over; now that he must surely fight in his younger brother's place.... What were elder brothers for if not to take responsibilities as well as privileges?

Thirdly — and this so repeatedly that it drove him nearly mad — he rehearsed explanations and arguments by which he could put himself right with Gertie and May. He would have presently to go downstairs and meet them at breakfast.... Why did not Austin come back?... In God's name, why did not Austin come back?. What could he say? He knew nothing. Perhaps Austin was back: perhaps he had not gone after all; perhaps he was already at breakfast with the rest, discussing him.

A clock chimed. He listened in an agony. There were two chimes, and the space between seemed an eternity. Silence followed. Was that two in the afternoon, or half-past eight? He sprang up and ran to his bedside. The hands of his watch pointed to half-past six. He shook his watch; held it to his ear and listened; then he stared at the moving hand that marked the seconds. Was it truly only half-past six?

Then he laid it down, softly, as if for fear of waking a child; for a footstep came past his door. It went on, and ceased; and he heard a door close. Then, through the wall, with his ear laid against it, he heard someone moving in the next room.

At his own door he paused, his mouth hanging open; his mind revolved like a pack of wheels.... Then he opened his door, and without looking behind him went swiftly up the passage to Austin's door. It was closed. He tapped once, but there was no answer. He opened it and went in. Austin, with his coat and waistcoat off, was bending over the basin, and there was the sound of trickling water: he did not turn round or show any sign.

Val stood there, perfectly still, watching. Then he cleared his throat; but Austin did not show any sign of having heard him: his shirt-sleeves were turned back to the elbow and he seemed to be doing something with a sponge.

"Austin?"

"Damn it," said Austin suddenly; and then, " Come and do this for me."

An extraordinary flush of joy swept through the boy; he came quickly across the floor, still barefooted and in his pyjamas; he then recoiled. A sound broke from his mouth.

For the basin seemed full of blood; a roll of bloodstained bandages lay beside it; and along Austin's right arm, from wrist to elbow, on the inner side, ran a long, deep furrow that dripped blood as he looked.

" Blast it all," snapped Austin again. " Can't you be some good? Look how I'm bleeding."

With a huge wrench at.himself, Val gathered his nerves together, and bound them tight by an action of his will. He came round behind his brother, took the sponge from his left hand — the sponge that was all clotted and stained with crimson — wrung it out, dipped it again, and then holding Austin's right hand, squeezed out a flood of cold water on to the wound. He could see now that the furrow was not all: just above the elbow a spot of blood lay welling, and from behind the elbow something dropped steadily into the water.

;( That's no good," snarled Austin. " Get some more bandages — quick. There" (he jerked with his head). "Get some handkerchiefs out of that top drawer and tear them up."

Val flew across the room, flung open the drawer, and snatched out the handkerchiefs. He looked hopelessly round for scissors, saw them, snipped the hem of each handkerchief and tore them across.

(n)

As the clock was striking half-past seven, Val, kneeling by Austin's chair in which he had made him sit down for the slow process of bandaging, tenderly pulled down the shirt-arm, unfolded the cuff, and fastened it with its link. Then before he laid the hand down along the chair-arm he kissed it.

" Don't be a blasted fool," said Austin explosively.

They had not spoken one word yet beyond those necessary for the manipulation of the arm. Austin had flatly refused to have a doctor in the first five minutes. Val had not suggested it; but the other had suddenly cried out that he would not have one.

While Val had been working: fetching vaseline from his own room; flinging on a few clothes and dashing down to the porter to send him to a chemist for something that would stop bleeding;- and then washing and washing, and untying and bandaging and untying and bandaging again — while all these external things were being done, an interior process was also going on: his pride, it seemed, was melting, his bitterness of self-reproach going, and he appeared to himself to be becoming humble and simple -as a girl might be towards a lover who had suffered in her behalf. It had been as a sort of climax of this process that, in a passion of love and sorrow towards his brother, he had kissed his hand. And now Austin's sharp sentence set all his nerves jangling and quivering once more. It appeared to him from his brother's tone as if there were to be no smoothing over of the wrong by caresses. He stood up, ashamed and angry.

" Look here," said Austin, " we must have a talk. Sit down; give me a cigarette first. And ring for coffee."

" I'll go and fetch it," said Val.

In five minutes he was back again with the tray: he poured out a cup for Austin, and held a match for him to light a cigarette. He set the coffee on his brother's left hand, that he might help himself.

" And look here," said Austin, " first you'd better hear the facts. Then you can settle what you're going to say to the others. I needn't say I shan't be down to breakfast! "

His lips writhed in a kind of painful smile. Then he finished his coffee and leaned back smoking.

"Well," he said, "I went to the place. The others drove up just behind me. When they wanted to know why you weren't there I told them you were ill. I lied freely. There was nothing else to be done. They tried to sneer at that; and Don Adrian

What's-his-name began to make himself offensive. But I soon shut him up by telling him I didn't see what he'd got to complain of: he'd behaved like a dirty blackguard and had been properly chastised; and it was a considerable honour to him that we consented to meet him at all. You were ill, I said; and I had insisted on your remaining at home. And I had come to take your place. Would they kindly begin therefore at once, or I should be obliged to slap him on the only other cheek he had left.... It seemed to me the only way out of it.... Well, they agreed at last, and we fought; and he gave me this in the first go off. I must say they behaved decently after that; especially the doctor-chap who acted as my second and tied me up. They wanted to kiss and make friends. And I did shake hands with them. And then they put me in a cab and sent me away."

He stopped.

"I feel vile," he said; "I think I'm going to faint."

Val sprang up and ran for the sponge; he tore open Austin's collar and bathed him, face and ears and breast. Then Austin opened his eyes again.

" All right," he said. " Sit down. Now what are we going to do next? We shall have to tell the girls something."

Val opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.

" I can't possibly come out of my room to-day/' went on Austin, not noticing; " and I very much doubt whether I'll be able to travel to-morrow. I don't see how it's possible to stop their knowing. But I'm perfectly willing to say that I insisted on going instead of you; or that you were, honestly, taken really ill in the night. Lord knows I don't want people to say more unpleasant things than they need. That'd be no consolation."

He paused again.

" Which is it to be? " he said. " Whichever you like. Only we must stick to it like death, even at home."

" I shall tell them the truth," said Val in a low voice.

" Don't talk blasted rot," said Austin. " What good would that do? Someone would be sure to talk, and then the whole thing 'ud get out. I don't want one of us to be pointed at as a coward. Look here; you were ill, you know. You looked perfectly ghastly."

For one instant even then Val hesitated; he saw one more escape beckoning to him; he perceived in that intensity of thought to which by now every fibre of him was screwed up, that here once more was a way out, as there had been in the other matters — the fight at Eton, the riding of Mention, and the climbing in Switzerland. Even Austin said that he looked really ill. Then he crushed down the temptation.

" That was sheer funk," he said. " I was not ill. I was a coward. I shall tell them the truth."

Austin moved irritably in his chair.

" You seem to me to be simply thinking of yourself again. Can't you for one instant, by way of a change, think of the rest of us? Do you suppose we want all this to get out? It wouldn't be pleasant for us to be pointed at, and to have it said that you were a coward. We hang together, you know; you can't get over that."

Val stood up.

" Look here, Austin. Are you well enough for me to leave you for five minutes? "

"Yes. Why?"

" I'm going to tell them now," he said; and went quickly out before Austin could speak again.

(m)

May was lying in bed, beginning to wonder whether it really was true that a maid had come in, drawn the curtains back, and told her it was half-past seven. Surely the maid must have been before the time — twenty past at the most — and it would be scarcely fair to take advantage of that. In that case she would have been deprived of ten minutes' sleep, unjustly, and it was really almost a duty to set that right So she argued, with that singular logic which prevails at such seasons.

The room she was sleeping in was typically hotel. It was extremely comfortable and expensive, and, on the whole, rather repulsive; it had, that is to say, not the faintest suggestion of homeliness. The only really comfortable object that met her eye was her own trunk and the half-open door of a cupboard that contained dresses and boxes. A small heap qf things — a large Roman leather photograph frame, a tattered chasuble rolled up, some coffee-coloured lace, a bronze statuette of Antinous, and a small box full of moonstones — lying in a huddle on her table, represented her efforts last night to put together her locally coloured purchases, for packing.

She presently began to argue that no sounds yet proceeded from Gertie's room, which communicated with hers. The door was closed, and it was barely possible that in spite of the silence Gertie might be getting up; but it was not likely. And it would not be kind or tactful to be down to breakfast before her friend. The boys would most certainly be late too: they always were; and Val had once said that it annoyed him to see everybody else breakfasting when he appeared. By the way, Val wasn't well last night; and he would therefore be more certain than ever to be late. By the way, she wondered how he was this morning. Austin had said it looked rather like a feverish cold last night — not serious.

" Come — er... Avanti! " cried May suddenly, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin. (Was it conceivable that this was the maid after all? In that case, she would have ten minutes' good )

Then Val appeared, closing the door behind him.

"Val!"

He did not speak for an instant. He looked odd somehow. Certainly he was dressed; but his hair was tumbled... he looked as if he had slept in his clothes.

"What's the matter?" asked May, sitting up suddenly in bed.

His lips opened, but he did not speak. She was frightened.

" Val! What is it? Are you ill?'"

"Look here, May. Don't be frightened. Nothing's wrong; at least not very. But, first, will you ask Gertie to come and speak to me now — now and here. Promise? Then I'll tell you."

May slipped out of bed, and stood, gone pale in an instant, looking curiously frail and childish in her white nightdress and bare feet Her hair fell in a twisted coil over one shoulder.

"Yes," she said breathlessly; "I promise. Oh! Val, tell me."

He hesitated again; and she could see the struggle in his face.

" Very well, then/' he said almost harshly. " Austin wants to see you.... He's not very well. He's... been wounded... in the arm. No; it's not serious. He... he fought a duel, instead of me, this morning — an hour ago. I was a coward and wouldn't go.

She stood, swaying. He came a step nearer.

" Say what you like to me afterwards - but "

Then the door from Gertie's room opened, and she came in, fully dressed.

" Why, May -

Then she, too, stopped dead, and her eyes grew large and apprehensive.

"Val.... May.... What's the matter?"

The boy nodded to his sister.

"All right," he said. "Go.... He's in his own room."

She seized her dressing-gown and slipped it on: pushed on her slippers. He opened the door for her. Then he closed it after her and turned to Gertie.

" Gertie," he said, " I've come to tell I'm a cur and a coward. I was challenged to a duel last night — by that Italian. I accepted; that's why I went to bed early. And when the time came I behaved like a cur. I wouldn't go; Austin went instead; and he's been wounded in the arm.... That's all." He stood a moment longer looking at her. She did not speak or move. Then he turned and went quietly out.